


honey bee.

by abovethethroat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autism, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Bees, Gen, Meltdown, Sensory Overload, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Special Interest, asd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 00:10:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethethroat/pseuds/abovethethroat
Summary: Sherlock is excited about his new bees and all he wants is to share his enthusiasm with John, but somehow his mind can't seem to let him.





	honey bee.

The apiary that Sherlock secretly ordered a couple of weeks ago has finally arrived and he is carefully setting it up on the thin ledge right outside of his bedroom window - that will surely keep the bees nice and warm in the sun and away from any drafting. He has switched out the flowers growing in the plant boxes on the ledge beforehand, they now contain bee favorites: common foxglove, jasmine, honeysuckle. 

It’s just past five and he knows that John is getting off the tube and exiting onto Marylebone Road right about now. _Three minutes,_ he thinks to himself. _Perhaps as many as seven if John stops for ice cream at the Baskin-Robbins across the street, he has a hard time picking out the flavors._

_The environment has a large effect on differences among bee colonies. For example, plants in different areas yield different honey crops, but the genetic makeup of a colony can also impact the characteristics that define a particular group. Beekeepers have long known-_

The warm feeling of finally getting his bees spreads throughout his chest and he is practically glowing when he hears his flatmate open the door, pulling him from his thoughts. John eyes him with suspicion when he takes in the unusually bright expression on the detective’s face. 

“New case, then?” John asks. Anything to stop him from putting more bullets through the wallpaper. He looks around but finds there are no files strewn out on the coffee table, no crease in the sofa pillows that suggests time spent in that peculiar mind palace. Sherlock shakes his head and motions for John to be quiet. There’s a faint buzzing to be heard and Sherlock’s practically grinning. 

He makes the connection - _He’s brought bloody bees. Into our flat. Jesus Christ._ \- and smiles back. “I have indeed, John,” Sherlock says, and he can’t even bother being embarrassed that he mumbled out loud. “But don’t you worry. If a bee slips inside the flat every now and again I will just carry it outside in a glass. They won’t sting you if you don’t provoke them.” There’s a pause. Sherlock prepares to speak again but John cuts him off  with a low, rumbling laugh.

“I don’t really know why I am surprised by this, really, I think I was expecting it on some level. It’s like when you are on a case, you being on the spectrum ensures that you never do anything half-heartedly. You delve so deep into things you are interested in, in a way I didn’t even think could be possible, until I saw it with my own eyes. Your second-greatest special interest after crime-solving is bees, so I should have been prepared for, well, _this_.” John motions in the general direction of the bedroom that is just-barely housing the bees, and swiftly takes off his jacket.

“Alright. If this is your way of telling me to get rid of the bees, then-”  he tentatively starts, a bit disappointed that John is not as excited about their new pets as he is. He has also spent quite a bit of money on the apiary and it would be a shame to let it go to waste. But if that is what John wants, he will have to do just that. He knows it will make him sad, getting rid of the honey bees, but it would be an even greater loss if John were to leave him, of course. He tries to ignore the unease he feels at the thought, the way the buzzing from the other room suddenly seems to make his ears hurt, drawing breath seems harder, and he’s _positive_ he can suddenly smell Mrs Hudson’s too-strong perfume all the way from her flat downstairs. He’s sure John can tell. 

And then there he is, right by Sherlock’s side, with those strong and calloused hands in his curls. “Sherlock. No, that is not what I was saying. Look at me, please,” he beckons, and slides his fingers through the curls down to Sherlock’s neck. “I like the bees, actually. But I like seeing you happy more. Of course we’re keeping them. It’s not like we haven’t had worse in our flat.” He chuckles a bit, an attempt to divert Sherlock’s attention from what he’s sure is already happening. _Overload. Meltdown._

John can tell that Sherlock has retreated back into his head - it’s like he’s locked inside his mind as a defense mechanism whenever things aren’t quite _right_ \- and the doctor knows that he often needs certain stimuli when he’s off-center, when his mind is working against him. “Let’s sit down over here,” he says as he gently leads Sherlock to the sofa. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to wrap my arms around you, okay? Nod for me?” Sherlock keeps his eyes shut tight and moves his head slightly, a non-verbal _yes._

_What if he leaves me - I’ll be all alone - oh god oh god - he will leave, I can tell - but I can’t be without my John - it’s all too much_

John slowly snakes his arms around his love’s torso to avoid startling him, and squeezes. Hard. Sherlock lets out a small whimper that sounds a lot like pain, but having been in this situation before, John knows that it’s the sound of relief, the sound of his mind slowly loosening its vice-like grip. 

John is aware that Sherlock won’t be able to fully engage with anything until his mind calms down, so he holds him for a bit longer, and then gets up in order to go get the weighted plushie and a blanket from a drawer. Sherlock tenses up as soon as John’s weight leaves him, but he relaxes again when he’s wrapped tightly in the blanket like a pupa.

Sherlock is not really sure why the thought of John not liking the bees is setting him off like this, why he has to have a meltdown _today._ Today was not supposed to go like this, he notes somewhere in the back of his mind. Most of his energy is focused on just breathing through the whirlwind of emotions, and trying not to shake.

_I need to tell him - why can’t I say something - can’t move - need pressure - pressure pressure_

At some point during the evening when Sherlock peeks out from under the blanket, there is a steaming hot cup of tea on the side of the sofa. He wants to tell John _thank you,_ but he knows he can’t use his words. Not yet. He hugs the soft bee closer and curses his mind for doing these things to him, for stripping away his  number one way of communicating. John has learned to understand him even without the words and wild gestures, but Sherlock still feels trapped inside his head without them, he feels lacking. All he can do is lie in the darkness under his blanket until everything stills and his senses are ready to take in what’s going on around him.

But no matter how much the meltdowns pain him and the sensory issues make him wish there was an off-button sometimes, he knows that the good bits are _glorious._ The rush of a case, the razor-sharp focus during experiments, the way his whole existence revolves around the worship of John. He wouldn’t trade his neuroatypical brain for anything in the world. 

He manages to gather enough strength to sit up, and reaches out to take a wobbly sip of his tea. And as he does, a stray honey bee makes its way past him through the room. He smiles, and knows it will be okay. It always is.


End file.
